


An Avvar Love Story: THE LAST STRAW

by Mikkeneko



Series: AN AVVAR LOVE STORY [5]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Avvar beliefs and customs, Avvar!Hawke, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Kirkwall, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 13:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6053530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the storm breaks, Hawke is determined to do anything to get Anders out alive. Anders... doesn't seem to agree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Avvar Love Story: THE LAST STRAW

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Imhar 'the Trickster' is a deity of the Avvar, and Purple Hawke's personal patron.

 

In the wake of the explosion, it was almost... quiet.

No other noises, no impacts could compare to the one that lit up the night, blew the top off the world. His ears were still ringing from the terrible roar -- he'd faced dragons, and none of them measured up -- and everything else, in contrast, was quiet. 

There was a certain peacefulness in being past the point of no return. He sat, hands clasped between his knees and head bowed, and although he sat completely still he felt like he was falling. He was committed now -- committed to the fall, and there was nothing more he could do until he reached the ground. 

It was too late to go back on it now. No matter what happened to him, the deed was done and could not be undone. The genie was out of the bottle, and nothing anyone could do would put it back again. He would die -- he was sure of that -- but he'd die having made a difference, and that was all he could hope for. 

Voices began to filter into his freefall. The quiet was beginning to wear off, as his ears recovered -- or maybe the voices were getting louder. Arguing. He recognized the raised tones of Aveline, Fenris, Sebastian -- and Hawke. 

All the usual suspects; fighting over which of them will get to take out the trash, no doubt. His opinion wasn't going to be called on for the matter, but on the whole, he really wished it could have been Garrett. Call it petty, call it spiteful, but he really didn't want to give any of the others the satisfaction. 

More shouting; Anders didn't turn around. Heavy footsteps behind him, and he didn't look up. Sebastian's voice shouting, "Hawke, you cannot do this! It flies in the face of the Maker!" 

The slithering of steel behind him, of blades drawn too swiftly from their sheaths. Anders couldn't help but tense up, breath quickening, anticipating the bite of steel that he knew all too well. Hawke's voice, bellowing nearly in his ear -- ["I will face the Maker and walk backwards into the VOID!"](http://mikkeneko.tumblr.com/post/129287349376/heartbleats-tfw-you-end-up-loving-a-character-a)

It wasn't the words that slithered into Anders' ears and cut through his calm deafness, it was the emotions behind the words -- raw fury, pain, and a terrible fear. It shook Anders, rattled him hard enough to pierce the protective numbness and made him afraid again. 

He looked up. 

Hawke stood in front of him, both blades drawn and poised to fight -- but facing the others, his _friends_. Hawke was ready to fight _them_ for Anders' sake, and that... that was so far from what Anders had intended, that he wanted to weep. 

"Garrett," he said quietly, but Hawke didn't turn; his gaze and focus were forward, trained on the archer in white with the furious intensity of a taut bowstring. "Garrett, don't." 

"I'm warning you, Hawke!" Sebastian said, taking a threatening step forward. "If you go down this path, may the Maker have mercy on you -- for I will not. I will return to Starkhaven and gather an army, gather all the armies of the Free Marches together and put this criminal down!" 

"I don't care what you do," Hawke snarled in response. "You can come at me now, alone -- or you can run back home with your tail between your legs and hide behind the walls and bodies of your precious city. But either way, if you come at my husband, you _will_ die." 

Anders forced himself to stand, to unclench himself from the numbness he'd fallen into. He stepped up behind Hawke, feeling so small in the other man's shadow even as his head cleared Hawke's by several inches. He rested his hands lightly on Hawke's shoulders and bowed his head, resting his forehead against the back of Hawke's neck. "Don't do this, Garrett," he whispered. 

"Shut up, you," Hawke growled over his shoulder. He switched his focus back to the others. "Well? What's it going to be? Do you stand with me -- or are we going to have it out?" 

One by one, the others acquiesced; Merrill eagerly, Isabela willingly, Varric, Aveline and Fenris grudgingly. Only Sebastian remained apart from them, radiating fury -- but unwilling to face Hawke in battle, not now. "We will meet again, Hawke," he threatened, and turned to storm off. 

Hawke watched him go. "Wish I had my bow, so I could put an arrow in _his_ back," he muttered. "Save a lot of trouble in the long run, I'll bet." 

"Garrett --" Anders began his pleas again. 

"I told you to hush." Hawke turned to face him, looking up searchingly into his eyes, and his face was so raw, so vulnerable. "Anders. We don't have time for this now -- Meredith is already moving on the Gallows. Just -- I just need one answer from you." 

"Anything," Anders said numbly. 

Hawke's eyes bore into his. "Did Justice tell you to do this?" he asked finally. "Was this his idea? Or did you -- come up with it on your own, and make him go along?" 

"What?" Anders rocked back on his heels by the unexpected question. "No! Of course not. We came up with this together. We both agreed, we could no longer ignore the injustices of the Circle. This is the justice all mages have awaited. And if I pay for that with my life…" Anders swallowed, his throat painfully dry. "Then I'm ready to pay. Perhaps then Justice at least will be free." 

Hawke nodded, his expression easing just a fraction. Anders tried again. "But Hawke, I... I hid this from you for a reason. I knew you'd want to help. But I can't let you throw your life --" 

This time, Hawke shut him up more directly, with an arm around the back of his head that bent him forward into a kiss. Hawke kissed hard, desperately, like this was the last hour of their lives; and maybe it would be. When he finally let Anders go, his whole body was trembling, weak with fear of what they might lose today. 

"No time now," he said. "Let's go."

 

* * *

 

It felt like a dream; the Gallows courtyard wreathed in smoke, the air shimmering in distortions above the half-melted flagstones and flickering ominously in the places where the Veil had been stretched thin. Meredith's frozen husk before him, twisted and charred in a rictus of agony, would not have been out of place in many of Anders' nightmares. 

And there was Knight-Captain Cullen, walking away. Anders watched it happen, feeling only half-real, too slow to process what he was seeing. "Where... where's he going?" he cried out, when the picture caught up with him. "Where are they going? This isn't over yet!" 

Hawke was holding his elbow, trying to pull him away. "It _is_ over, Anders," he insisted. "It's over. We've saved as many as we can. Cullen is giving us this chance -- it's the least he could do -- we've got to start evacuating the survivors out on the docks before any of their backup arrives..." 

"No!" Anders wrenched his arm out of Hawke's grip and took a step after the departing templars. He wobbled on his feet and had to use the staff in his hand to steady him -- after all this time, the excuse that it was _just a walking stick_ was finally coming true. "This isn't over! This can't be over! I'm still here! I'm still here!" 

He had it fixed in his mind, the way he'd dreamed it so many times until it felt more like a memory: this very courtyard, charred just as it was now, and his own last stand against the Templars. He and Justice together, without doubt or hesitation, till the very end -- fighting until the Templars finally managed to bring them down. No more hiding. No more running. Just the end. 

And now that moment had come, and they were... walking away. How could they just walk away? After all they had done, all the blood they had shed and chaos they had wrought, and they were walking _away?_  

"Fight me!" he yelled after the trailing backs of the Templars, taking another hobbling step in their wake. "Fight me! I'm right here! I blew up the Chantry -- did you forget so soon? I did it! Me! I'm right here, why aren't you doing your Maker-forsaken _jobs?_ Why aren't you killing me!" 

"Anders!" The panic in Hawke's voice tugged at Anders' attention, the part of his mind that was always devoted to watching over Hawke's well-being, to shield him when he was in danger and heal him when he was hurt. But Hawke wasn't hurt now, he was fine, it wasn't _him_ that was standing here on a nightmare field with every heartbeat ticking past its own expiration date. 

He didn't turn, didn't look away from the sight of those retreating helmets -- his promised redemption, his _end,_ getting further away with every moment. He took another step and then there were hands on him again, pulling him back, dragging him down. "No!" he screamed, thrashing and struggling against the encircling arms. "Let me go! Let me do this! Let me go!" 

He hardly felt the sudden pinch in his neck, the feeling of creeping sluggishness spreading through his veins, his eyes growing unbearably heavy -- and then nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

Once out past the breakwaters of Kirkwall's rocky harbor, the wild pitching of the Siren's Fury had quieted. It was by now more of a steady rocking, almost soothing in its rhythm. Hawke had managed to adjust his footing to the pitching roll of the ship's deck without too much trouble, although the three-dozen or so robed mages that they'd taken with them off the docks were still huddled down in the hold, clinging to the wooden spars for dear life. 

There was one more mage who hadn't stayed with the others, though; who, for all his long labor, was never truly one of their number. He had been put in a cabin alone, a little closet of a room next to the captain's cabin, to sleep off the effects of the drug that had rendered him unconscious. To sleep off, they all hoped, the shock that had gripped him in the wake of the last few earth-ripping days, that had left him desperately seeking his own destruction. 

Hawke hesitated outside the door of the cabin, shifting back and forth with the roll of the ship. What would he do if Anders _hadn't_ recovered? What would he do if Anders was still so bent on his own demise, determined to carve a path of fury through the world until it ended him? He was no mage, no healer; all he had was his own knives and hands and feet and, of course, his words. 

 _Oh Imhar, give me cunning,_ Hawke prayed, with a fervency he had only rarely felt before. _Now, of all times, make me quick of thought and fleet of tongue._  

He pushed open the door and went inside. 

Anders was awake, a fact which brought Hawke momentarily up short. He was sitting with his knees tucked up against him on the bunk that was bolted into the wall -- too short for him to stretch out his legs while sitting, let alone lie down. He was staring out the porthole window in the ship wall, which on every few swells would bring into view the distant coastline behind them; from this distance, Kirkwall was practically invisible except for the red-tinged cloud of smoke still rising. 

For a moment Hawke regretted the choice of cabin -- from almost anywhere else in the ship, that wouldn't have been visible -- but it was too late to change it now, and as he stepped into the cabin Anders turned his head to look at him. His expression was calm, at least, if closed and wary. He lifted his hands from where they had been resting on his knees, bound at the wrists by a doubled length of knotted rope. "Was this really necessary?" he said quietly. 

"Yes," Hawke said frankly. He'd taken care to remove Anders' sole knife from his possession once they'd gotten on the ship, taken all the herbs he couldn't identify from his pouches, and made sure that the cabin he'd been placed in had no exposed beams or overhanging ledges the rope could be hung from. "You scared me." 

He was still scared, although less so now; in a way, it was almost a relief to have the storm break. The thunderheads had been building for a long time now: months of watching his husband shutting down, closing himself off, giving away his few prized possessions to the few friends he still trusted. Cutting all of his ties to the world, one by one, until this was the only one left.

At least now he knew what Anders had been planning. At least now he'd seen the grief and fury that was driving him, at least now the worst was said and out in the open. Though he still didn't understand why. 

Anders chuckled. There was no humor in the sound, cold and derisive and rusty. Self-deprecating, Hawke recognized the sound; self-defensive. "And here I wouldn't have thought you were into that sort of thing," he said sardonically. 

"Wouldn't you?" Hawke frowned. He took a step forward and caught the trailing end of the rope; Anders flinched slightly away, and Hawke wanted to wince in sympathy. Instead he pulled the length of cord between his two hands, playing out the knots that had been tied along it, and held it out for Anders to view. "Don't you recognize this, Anders? It's only been three years. I didn't think you'd have forgotten." 

He'd only had minutes, in Kirkwall, to grab what he could from the Amell estate; his weapons, of course, a few basic and vital tools. As much money as he could easily carry, for money could bring the rest of it back, later. And the cord, which had sat at the bottom of the dresser drawer in their bedroom since the night of their wedding. 

He saw the moment of recognition in Anders' face; his eyes widened, and the defensive sarcasm crumpled. Tears filled his eyes, and when he took his next breath it was rough with them. Hawke wasn't exactly happy to be the cause of those tears, but at least it was an honest reaction. 

"Garrett..." Anders' voice came out choked. "You shouldn't do this. You shouldn't waste yourself on me." 

"Nothing I do for my heart is wasted." Hawke sat down. There wasn't much room on the bunk for one grown man, let alone too, but Hawke was agile and persistent. He fitted the line of his body to Anders', reached up and put his hand under Anders' chin so the other man had no choice but to look him in the eye. "Anders. I love you, always. Do you still love me?" 

"I do!" Anders insisted passionately. "I do. But... love isn't always enough."

A cold fist gripped Hawke's heart. "I don't understand." 

"I tried to warn you," Anders said softly. He didn't free his chin from Hawke's grasp, but his eyes slid away to the side. "That I was... going away." 

"That's fine. I'll go with you," Hawke said stubbornly. "There's nothing left to keep me in Kirkwall any more, not since Mother died. All I have left is you and Bethy, and you're both right here on this ship with me. We can go anywhere." 

"Not... no..." Anders' voice choked off. "That's not the type of 'away' I meant, love." 

The cold fist squeezed tighter, and Hawke shied backwards, climbing to his feet. He clenched his hands at his side, to keep them from punching the cabin wall in panic-fueled anger. "Then what the hell do you mean?" he shouted. 

Anders met his eyes steadily. "I mean I should have died for what I did," he said calmly. "I still should. Innocent lives were lost. I don't... I don't understand why you don't hate me for it." 

"What do you want me to say, Anders?" Hawke said, looking away uncomfortably. "I've always despised the Chantry and what they stand for. What they've meant for my people in the past; what they've meant for my family all my life. And what they've done to you." 

In truth, the idea of 'innocence' had always been a difficult one for Hawke. It was not a common concern amongst the Avvar; the old language didn't even have a word for 'innocent.' They divided the world instead into "enemy," "not an enemy," and "kin." Kin was kin no matter what wrongs they might have done, and the enemy of your kin was your enemy too, regardless of their personal virtue.   

In his time in the Andrastean-controlled world, Hawke had mostly found the concept of innocence to be overrated. It seemed strange to him that passivity and ignorance should make your life worth more than experience and accomplishment. Some of the best people Hawke had ever known had come into his life with hands already bloody, and never seen reason to feel guilt or shame for it. Innocence, as far as Hawke was concerned, meant nothing more than having been lucky enough never to be in a position where you were forced to make a hard choice. It was what you made of those choices, good or bad, that defined you. 

"It's not as though my hands are clean, you know; I've killed so many," Hawke's fingers traced unconsciously over the hilt of his war knife, so many times stained with blood. "Sometimes... sometimes killing is the only way. If I didn't believe that, I'd never be able to look myself in the mirror again. How could you think that I would hate you?" 

"Because I hate myself!" Anders' eyes clamped shut, only a few tears leaking out of the corners. "I wouldn't have done it if I thought there was any other way -- but it was still wrong. Too many people were caught in the crossfire. I never wanted that. The dead deserve justice, but it's too late. Isabela was right." 

Hawke stared at Anders for a long moment, his thoughts racing, his heart pounding. At last he came to a decision. "Let me speak to Justice," he said. 

"Hawke --" Anders started to say.

 "I need to speak to him." Hawke held out his hand, fingers spread. "Erkänna. **Erkänna** , **Justice**." 

Anders sank back against the bunk with a sigh, eyes fluttering closed. A blue-white light rolled up through his body, shifting him into a new posture, more rigid, less defeated, realigning muscles against bones. Anders' eyes opened again, but what looked out through them was no human. 

"What do you wish from me, Hawke?" Justice said, his voice still deep and sonorous, seeping its way into every crack and splinter of the rough wooden cabin. "Do you seek guidance? Wisdom? I have none to give. I have lost my way; I have lost myself." 

"Why do you say that?" Hawke said softly. 

"Do you truly not know?" Justice sat up on the bunk, his back straight and stiff despite the seated posture. He turned his head, gazing out the window to the cloud of ash and dust that still marked Kirkwall. "I look at the destruction yonder, and I should feel shame. I should feel anger for the sake of the victims, for the justice they are now owed. But I do not. I feel satisfaction. I feel vindication. 

"How can I consider myself a just being when there is a part of me that is gladdened by pain and death?" He shook his head slowly. "I am Justice no more. I am only Vengeance." 

"Vengeance has always been part of Justice," Hawke argued. "That's nothing new. A darker part, perhaps, but still a part." 

"An evil part," Justice replied. 

"No!" Hawke shook his head. "That something is hard and cold doesn't make it wrong. My father taught me about the spirits of the Land of Dreams. How they are eternal, but not unchanging. They have their gentler aspects, and their harsher ones, and they cycle between them as the seasons do. When winter comes, many plants and animals will die. To them, the winter is cruel. But it's still a part of life, and when the spring comes life will grow again." 

Justice stared at him in silence for a long time. His visage on Anders' face was always cold and blank, ageless and uncaring; yet when he spoke, the yearning in his voice was so thick that it made Hawke ache. "Do you think I can truly return to what I once was?" he asked. 

"I'm sure of it," Hawke said quickly. "Now that we're out of that place, I'm sure of it. Just give yourself time." 

Justice sighed softly. "I do not know if we have that time left to us," he admitted. 

Again the cold fist squeezed in Hawke's chest. "Justice, please..." He wetted his lips, trying to fight the right words to reach across the gap between them. "What is happening to Anders? Why is he so determined to destroy himself?" 

"Anders is... weary." Justice's eyes slid closed, as though he shared in Anders' exhaustion. "He is in pain. He longs for surcease.  We could not turn away from our work in Kirkwall. But once our goal was achieved, I could not deny him his rest." 

"But is it really death he wants, or just a way out?" Hawke wheedled. "Because I can offer him a way out. I can take him away from all this, start over. I can help him, if only he'll let me. If only you'd both let me." 

Justice looked back up at Hawke, his eyes half-shuttered. It did nothing to lessen the intensity of that burning gaze, that looked right through his soul and measured its worth. 

"I will try," he said at last. "I will do all that I can. In truth, no matter how much he would think otherwise... I do not want him to die." 

The light died, sublimating under Anders' skin as the spirit withdrew, leaving Anders alone in his skin. He drew a deep breath, bringing up his still-bound hands to rub at his face, trying to press out the pins-and-needles feeling that the transitions always gave him. 

"Stay," Hawke entreated. "We all want you to stay." 

A keening noise burst from Anders' throat, and he clutched his hands harder, as though he could hold back tears from sheer force of will. They made their way free anyway, sliding through the cracks in his fingers to drip down the backs of his hands. 

Hawke sat back on the bunk and gathered Anders into his arms, tucking his chin over the back of Anders' neck and feeling the feathers tickle the inside of his arms. He could feel Anders trembling, his whole body shaking as he tried desperately to swallow his sobs. "Shhh," Hawke soothed him, swaying back and forth in time with the ship. "It's all right, I've got you. You can let go now. You did your part, you _won._  

"The Gallows are empty. The mages are free, and the world won't be able to hide from this. We're out of there and we're never going back. You don't have to go back." Hawke angled down to kiss the shell of Anders' ear, and whispered into it; "You don't ever have to go back." 

They stayed like that, Hawke holding Anders close -- near, safe, protected, the only thing he'd ever wanted -- until the quiet sobs finally died away. They stayed like that for a while longer, Hawke petting the strands of Anders hair that had fallen loose from his ponytail and curtained his face. 

"I don't know what to do next," Anders confessed brokenly. "I don't know where to go from here." 

"I do," Hawke said firmly. It wasn't entirely true; he didn't have a plan in mind yet, but he was sure he could think of one. Everything that mattered in the world, everything that had value was here on this ship with them, and the ship could take them anywhere. "I'll take care of everything. Just stay with me." Hawke kissed him again. "Marry me, Anders." 

Anders sniffed wetly, then chuckled. "Didn't I already?" he asked. 

Hawke pulled the end of the rope around, at the tail end where the first three knots had been undone. "You did," he said. "Three knots for three years. That's how the Avvar marriage works. At the end of the marriage, the couple decides whether they want to get married again, or go their separate ways. This is my choice." He moved his lips to a fresh spot on Anders' cheek, and kissed him again. "I just need yours." 

"Then..." Anders heaved a huge sigh, a long exhale that seemed to take something out of him. He was left exhausted, drained, but lighter. "Then I choose to stay." 

A grin broke out over Hawke's face, and he hurried to rearrange them to better positions: Anders sitting on the bunk, the rope trailing over the edge, and himself on the floor with plenty of elbow room to work. There was no hearth to build here, not on a ship, but damn it, he wasn't going to wait until they got to land. They'd go up to the galley afterwards and Anders could light a fire in the galley stove there, he didn't care. 

"I don't... know what to sing," Anders confessed, as he held out his bound hands for Hawke. "I don't know any songs but the Chant and I can't... I just can't..." He teared up again. 

Hawke glanced up, already fiddling with the edges of the rope. "I could teach you something new," he offered. "Well, something old. The Avvar have lots of songs. Oral history, you know. Long, rolling ballads of lineage and mighty deeds that go on forever. Lots of shenanigans and offended honor and quests for vengeance, ought to appeal to Justice," he added hopefully. 

A small smile touched Anders' face, a brief lick of blue light across his cheek. "I'd like that," he said. Then his smile grew, as he was taken by inspiration. "You can help me with the song, and I can help you with the knots." 

Hawke's eyes widened. That was completely against the Avvar tradition -- the bride wasn't supposed to help the groom with the knots, it was supposed to be his task. But then again, this wasn't a traditional Avvar wedding ceremony by a long shot -- they'd already had one of those, and it was behind them, still in smoking Kirkwall. Maybe it was time to try something new, something for the two of them.  "Are you..." _sure_ , he was about to say, but he already knew the answer, so he just finished with a lame, "If you want." 

"I want," Anders said, smiling down at him, and the smile made the light in his golden eyes dance again. 

The ship rocked on, rising and falling as it cut through the waves; up on the deck, Isabela sat comfortably propped at the tiller, watching the horizon ahead of her. From below decks, from the cabin next to her own, she heard a pair of old familiar voices: two old friends, their voices raised together in song. 

And she smiled.

 

* * *

 

~end.

**Author's Note:**

> There we go! Sorry for the angst, guys. I'm aware that on a friendmance route such as the one Hawke was on in this series, Anders should not be this suicidal by the time of the Chantry explosion, since that's more of a rivalmance thing. But, it was where the story wanted to go and I wanted to give Garrett a chance to deal with those feelings.
> 
> The story also ended up not focusing much on Hawke's feelings about the Chantry explosion itself, mostly because in all honesty it rated a massive *shrug* from him. Of all the Hawkes I have ever written, Avvar Hawke would literally care the least about this particular event.


End file.
